


(Day 20) Inebriant

by mydwynter



Series: January Sherlock Vignette Challenge [20]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, January Sherlock Vignette Challenge, M/M, Mention of Drug Abuse, failure sucks, lestrade is once again the voice of reason, mention of alcohol abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-03
Updated: 2013-02-03
Packaged: 2017-11-28 00:19:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/668130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mydwynter/pseuds/mydwynter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Sherlock pulled a face. He reached one long arm out to nick one of Lestrade’s beers and twisted it open, then without moving from his slumped position tilted it back and drank nearly half of it in one go.</i>
</p><p>Sometimes, just sometimes, Lestrade can talk Sherlock down a little.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(Day 20) Inebriant

**Author's Note:**

> For the month of January, I had planned on posting a Sherlock vignette, born out of prompts from generators and friends alike, little pieces written quickly and posted, sketches made from words. But these best laid plans went massively aglay due to travel and illness, so I only managed 20. Ah, well. Lesson learned. I hope they were enjoyable nonetheless, and thanks for reading.
> 
> Prompt via [Moonblossom's Sherlock Fanfic Prompt Generator:](http://moonblossom.net/prompter/) Sherlock, Lestrade, hurt/comfort, 221B, “beer”

“Have you told John yet?”

Sherlock shook his head. “He’s at work. I’ll tell him when he gets home.”

“This is probably an exception to the texting embargo.”

“He didn’t work with me on this case.”

“He’d probably still want to know!” Lestrade sat forward and rested his elbows on his knees as he took a slug of his beer. He pushed the bottle back and forth between his hands as he added, “Even if he didn’t work a case, he’s still…emotionally invested in your life, Sherlock. Haven’t you figured that out already?”

Sherlock pulled a face. He reached one long arm out to nick one of Lestrade’s beers and twisted it open, then without moving from his slumped position tilted it back and drank nearly half of it in one go.

"Ignoring it won't make it go away."

"Of course it will," Sherlock spat.

Lestrade frowned at him. "I don't believe you really can just delete things, Sherlock. The human brain doesn't work that way."

"Mine does."

"No it doesn't," Lestrade said with the conviction of long experience. "You used to just get blitzed enough that you could black it out. That's not the same thing."

"You use alcohol, Lestrade. Don't be a hypocrite. It's dull."

"No, I _drink_ alcohol. It's not the same th—"

He was interrupted by Sherlock making a noise like a dying elephant. "PLEASE. Don't insult my intelligence. Alcohol is an intoxicant. Even when they think they're using it recreationally, I think you'll find that upon further consideration people are instead using it _medicinally_. Social lubricant, brain fogger, diluter of inhibitions…people use alcohol as a mechanism for all manner of things. Hardcore use degrades the health of the body and personal relationships. You cannot convince me that simply because it's a common intoxicant it must be a harmless one, Lestrade, so don't even try it."

"I wasn't!" Lestrade frowned darkly at him. "I'm… I'm simply saying that I don't use—"

"You're using it to relax right now, trying to slough off the remains of my execrable failure."

"Then so are you."

"Of COURSE I am!" Sherlock sat up. "Of course I am. Neither you nor John would permit me to have something stronger, something _helpful_ , so instead I'm stuck with this useless 6% alcohol dreck and forced to listen to your pedestrian moralising."

Lestrade gave Sherlock a narrow glare. "So if John and I weren't in the picture you'd be using right now."

"Yes!" Sherlock melted back against his chair. "No. I don't know. The circumstances are so different now I don't—I don't know."

"You probably wouldn't have just worked that case without me."

Sherlock inclined his head in begrudging agreement, then slumped again. He said quietly, "I don't even know if I'd be alive right now, without John. And you."

Lestrade stared absently at the cluttered table in the lounge: at John and Sherlock's laptops opposite each other, at the abandoned cups of tea cold and crusting on Sherlock's side, at the scattered papers and cheap biros and bottlecaps and wadded up register receipts, at the detritus of two lives sharing space and growing ever more entwined together. The sight was a melancholy one when Lestrade considered that it might never have existed. It echoed of the months after Sherlock had fallen and John had been the one shattered, and so Lestrade rapidly finished off his drink. "Well, you are. And you owe John the respect of letting him know what's happened."

Sherlock made a rude noise and cracked open another beer.

"Why the hell not, Sherlock? He's going to figure it out tonight when he gets home. He's not stupid."

"That's up for some debate."

"Don't take this out on him. He doesn't deserve that." Sherlock's face closed down as lifted the bottle to his face for a long drink. "And what's more, you know he doesn't," Lestrade continued. "What the hell are you afraid of?"

Sherlock turned on him. "I'm not _afraid_ , Lestrade. Why would I be afraid of telling John?"

"That's what I'm trying to figure out."

Sherlock pushed to his feet, paced for a few seconds, and started laying a fire in the grate. "I'm not afraid."

"Well something's going on. Do you think he's going to…I dunno, think less of you?"

"He should." Sherlock spun around. "He _should_. A man is dead because I failed, and that's the sort of thing he cares about. People's _lives_. Even if he doesn't sodding _know them_."

"Sherlock—"

"And now he's made _me_ care, and I hate this. I can't function like this. And even if he doesn't go on account of my mistake, that will be worse. He's going to tiptoe around with that idiotic hangdog look on his face and treat me like spun glass and I'm going to want to punch him and this is _intolerable_." Sherlock abandoned the fireplace to stand and drink down the second of his beers.

"Is that what he normally does?"

Sherlock scowled at Lestrade. "What?"

"Does he usually treat you like spun glass?"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "What do you mean?"

"I've never seen John interact like that with you, Sherlock. When push comes to shove, he usually pushes back. Doesn't he?"

"No." Sherlock fumed. "Yes. There _have_ been times when he's too soft. He takes into account my _feelings_ , and he's WRONG."

"And you probably blew up at him." Sherlock threw himself petulantly back into his chair. "So he stopped. Or blew up right back at you. He knows you, Sherlock. I can see that, and I'm—blessedly—not here all the time. He's probably even more adept at reading you now that you're…you know. Together. That happens. You get to know each other better. Give him some credit, all right? Don't try to erase this. Just talk to him."

Sherlock considered this and heaved a massive sigh. "So I shouldn't drink."

"Oh you can totally drink." Lestrade chuckled. "Just don't use it as a replacement for John."

"I wasn't going to—"

"Yes you were."

Sherlock scowled. "I wasn't."

"Whatever, Sherlock." Lestrade opened another bottle. "Whatever you say." Silence and dusk fell around them as they drank their beer, and eventually, quietly, Sherlock sent a text.


End file.
